Magnate's Make-Believe Mistress Read Online Free Page A

need directions? I have a street directory in—”
    â€œThank you, but not necessary. My car has sat nav.”
    Of course it did. Isabelle gave herself a swift mental kick. She’d been too intent on the man, had barely noticed the car. No doubt it was as sleek, expensive and European as its driver.
    â€œWould forty minutes be sufficient driving time?” he asked.
    â€œI’d allow forty-five, minimum, to be sure.”
    Somehow he’d managed to trap her gaze, to hold it with the steady strength of his. “Is that your way, Isabelle? Are you the careful type who always makes allowances for the unexpected?”
    â€œI believe that is efficient,” she said carefully. “And sensible.”
    â€œLike your sensible and efficient uniform?”
    Not really, but she did not want to indulge whatever issue he had with formality. The shapeless grey dress might be ugly, but it suited Isabelle just fine. “About the menus. Could we look at your preferences?”
    She slid the breakfast list forward; he gave it one perfunctory glance and slid it back. “Juice, orange. Eggs, poached. Bacon, crisp but not too crispy. Coffee, Colombian, black.”
    So, he could address the question efficiently when he chose to. Praise be. “And lunch tomorrow?”
    This time he didn’t even glance at the menu choices. “Let’s wing it.”
    â€œWing it?” She frowned. “You must have some requirements, some preferences.”
    â€œOnly one.” With fluid grace he straightened his negligent posture and touched her Peter Pan collar with the knuckles of one hand. “This has to go.”
    â€œBut I’m required to—”
    â€œI would think that I am paying you enough to entitle me to dictate my own requirements, don’t you?”
    Isabelle nodded stiffly, then swallowed. He was too close, in her space. An insidious warmth pooled in her belly and thickened her voice when she spoke. “What are your requirements, Mr. Verón?”
    â€œFor a start, I don’t stand on ceremony. There is no need to address me as Mr. Verón.”
    â€œBut—”
    He silenced her objection with a finger to her lips. “My name is Cristo. Let us start with that and work our way up, shall we?”
    Shocked by his unexpected touch, fighting the temptation to lean into it, to open her mouth, Isabelle stared up at himfor a full second before she could process the request and voice any form of response. “I can try,” she said huskily.
    â€œYou strike me as very capable, Isabelle. I’m sure you will catch on.”
    Isabelle wasn’t sure she wanted to catch on to something that involved the intimacy of first names and working their way up. But as he’d pointed out, he was the boss and paying her an obscenely generous wage, so she nodded in reluctant agreement. And focussed on the lesser of two evils. “What do you require me to wear instead of this uniform?”
    â€œWhatever is comfortable,” he said after considering the question far longer than it warranted. “As long as it is not grey.”
    Â 
    Not grey Isabelle could do, but comfortable? No, she couldn’t imagine ever being comfortable with this man. Not when her body still simmered from that simple glancing touch to her lips. Not after his sleepy-lidded eyes had glimmered with wicked intent while he considered the question of her work attire.
    Was he picturing her without the uniform? Or in some sexy male-fantasy version? The possibilities should have appalled her, but instead they blazed in her mind as she watched him walk away.
    His walk, like so much else about Cristo Verón, was confident and captivating. It grabbed her attention and didn’t let go until the front door shut in his wake. Damn the man. He was like some sexy, six-foot, treacle-voiced magnetic field.
    Isabelle should have been pleased to see the back of him, but after releasing the breath